


what's past is prologue

by ScrivenerSavannah



Series: Martin of Mossflower [1]
Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: AU, F/M, Other, canon veers sharply to the left and I see what happens, first in a series, larger set up for said series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 07:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrivenerSavannah/pseuds/ScrivenerSavannah
Summary: One choice remade, and the benefits and consequences of it that spiral outward. Or, what if Luke’s tribe had stayed to fight Verdauga, instead of fleeing North? How much would have changed? How much would have stayed the same?





	what's past is prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to raphcrow for betaing.

_The thing about stories, you see…_

* * *

 Almost two score mice huddle together for warmth under the branches of Mossflower woods. Their home lies behind them, a violated wreck of its former comfort. Their leader stands watch at the edge of the camp, paws on the pommel stone of a sword, the tip resting lightly on a scree of autumn leaves. He is uncertain, and afraid, but shows his tribe nothing but confidence. His ears twitch back, listening to the murmurings of the elders, the fitful cries of the young ones, confused and cold. 

Something must be done. 

A shape looms out of the darkness suddenly, and the mouse brings his sword up, ready to parry or stab or slash. “Peace,” the shape says, voice gruff but gentle, as a badger steps closer. 

“Bella,” the mouse says, and stands down to let her pass. Behind him, the mice relax and chatter to each other quietly, the whisper of voices barely louder than the wind through the leaves. 

Bella looks down at him, compassion and grief writ in every line of her sturdy body. “I heard what happened _—_ I’m so sorry about your father, Luke.” 

The mouse nods once, tightly, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he grinds his teeth. “We’re not safe here,” he says. “Not with that cat and his vermin.” The mice behind him have gone quiet again, listening to every word that passes between Luke and their badger friend. 

“My home is yours, Luke, as long as you wish for it to be,” Bella says softly, liquid brown eyes pitch black in the moonlight. “Brockhall was designed for badgers. We’ve easily the space for all of you.”

Luke looks over his tribe again, counting the families, the tiny ones. So many old, so many young, so many lost.

* * *

  _…is that they’re never really settled._

* * *

 “Aye,” he says at last, and sheaths his sword, the hilt sticking up over his right shoulder. “Thankee, Bella, for your hospitality. Someday we’ll repay you.” He turns, placing both hands on his hips, and issues orders in a quiet, though stern voice. “Vurg, Denno, I want you two at the back concealin’ tracks. Can’t have those scum trackin’ us back to Bella’s home. Pair up, the rest o’ you, an’ carry what little ‘uns you can. I’m not losin’ any more. Sayna?” 

A pretty young mousewife slips her paw into his, the other resting over her middle. “I’m here, Luke.” He squeezes her paw in relief.

* * *

  _All a story is is a beast making one choice—_

* * *

 Sayna stands in front of a shamefaced Luke, mousebabe tucked firmly under one arm like a sack of potatoes, her other paw gripping a sheathed sword by the hilt. Bella and Barkstripe exchange amused looks as the mousewife lectures her chief, emphasizing each phrase with the sword. The rest of the tribe keep their heads down, muffling laughter into their breakfast plates. 

“And what, pray tell, have I told you about leaving this around?” Sayna demands. 

“‘Twasn’t around,” Luke protests. “‘Twas next to me. I had my eye on it, love _—_ ” 

“Don’t you ‘love’ me, Luke, Son of Martin.” Sayna swings the sword up to point directly at her husband. The babe under her arm watches it avidly. “And if you’d had an eye on it, I wouldn’t have found your son halfway out the dining hall doing his best to haul it with him!” 

Luke looks impressed. “Well, he’s gettin’ stronger, isn’t he?” He ducks under the sword and rescues the babe, dancing back out of range again before Sayna can give him a rap with the sheathe. He swings him up onto sturdy shoulders, giving his wife a winning, roguish smile. “Martin’s a warrior born, and knows what he’s after, that’s all _—_ yowch!”

Martin has seized on his father’s ears for balance, grip unexpectedly strong for a mousebabe only a few weeks old. The hall’s attempt at keeping a straight face fails miserably, and Sayna relents, a wry smile stealing over her whiskers as their friends and family laugh. She steps closer, brushing her nose to Luke’s and pressing the sword back into his paws. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” she says, and scrunches her nose up at her babe, serious expression framed by his father’s ears. “Both of you.”

* * *

_—and another—_

* * *

The three badgers sit before the fire in the common room of Brockhall, sipping mulled cider from mugs the size of Luke’s head. “It’s not slavery,” Barkstripe says, voice slow and measured. “They’ve their own homes, they’re not locked away, they’ll keep the produce come harvest.” He looks at his wife, but Bella only shakes her head. 

“Only after giving half of it to the fortress as levy. That cat’s a clever one,” she says, staring into the fire. “Call it protection, discredit resistance. Make it easier to go along. There’re already dozens of families in that compound, those afraid to risk the lives of their little ones by rebelling.” 

“Aye,” their guest agrees. “Set curfews, overseers in the fields to guard against outside threats and make sure everybeast is working, leave off chains and locks so they can convince themselves it’s not slavery. Forbid creatures from wandering off the lands, or carrying weapons for protection, because what need do they have for it, with soldiers surrounding them?” She takes a long draught of cider. “It’s not slavery, no, but it’s not freedom either.” 

Barkstripe sighs heavily. “Yes. But we’re not fighters, Rowanoak, only farmers. What can we do?” 

Rowanoak shakes her head. “I don’t know, friend. I don’t know.”

* * *

__—_ and another._

* * *

“Somethin’ must be done.” 

It is usual, now, to hear the mouse chieftain in discussion with their host, late at night after the young ones have gone to sleep.

“Aye,” Barkstripe agrees, the response worn with repetition. “But we don’t have the skills to fight back.”

“We do,” Luke counters. Barkstripe glances at him. “We do,” he repeats, insistently. “I’ve been about. Those otters can spear a fish quick as a wink, an’ squirrel archers are nothin’ to sneeze at. Gather volunteers, anyone who wants _—_ we can train up a fighting force.”

Barkstripe shakes his head, the flicker of hope dying in his eyes, unnoticed until it has vanished. “Luke, my friend, I respect your spirit. You know that. And you’re right, there are skilled beasts in Mossflower, but those skills haven’t been tested against an enemy before. The otters hunt for fish, the squirrels protect their dreys from rooks and other hunting birds. You’ll have a hard time convincing any of them that outright war against the cat’s horde is wise.” 

Firelight glints red in Luke’s eyes. “‘Tisn’t. And outright war isn’t my plan. We’re outnumbered an' under-trained. But this winter’s colder than any I can remember, an' that cat’s sittin' in the fortress warm and snug.” He leans forward, tapping the table with one paw to emphasize his words. “We take the time fate’s given us, and we train now, practice now. Come spring, we strike an' retreat, strike an' retreat, sting Greeneyes like bees. You can’t fight bees with a sword. Eventually, we’ll whittle him down enough that he has to flee.”

* * *

_The course of a story isn’t like a stream running through the woods._

* * *

Luke crouches low in the newly budded undergrowth, paw clenching around his smoke-blackened sword. He breathes shallowly, counting as the vermin patrol passes. A handful of squirrels wait above him, ready at his signal to strike, then flee through the treetops. The rearguard passes. Luke tenses, ready for his ambush. 

“Sure now, I’d not do that, if’n I were you,” a low voice murmurs from his left. 

Luke twists his head sharply to the side to see a mouse lying beside him, mimicking his own posture. She gives him a broad wink. “There’s another gang comin’ along behind ‘em. Afraid ol’ Greeneyes is gettin’ wise to your tactics, me friend.” 

“Who the devil are you?” Luke hisses, more frustrated with himself that he’s failed to notice her than hostile. She clearly isn’t an enemy. 

The mouse grins widely, and offers him a lazy paw to shake. “Siobhan, yer honor. Me ol’ man’s at Brockhall with the little ‘un.” 

Luke accepts the paw, still looking at Siobhan with a measure of skepticism. “Aye?” 

“Aye. Y’know a lot about the warrior stuff, Luke me friend, but ye could stand for a few lessons on sneakin’ about.” Though her eyes hold a twinkle, they’re also hard and unyielding. “That’s why I’m here. Queen o’ Mousethieves, Warrior. At yer service.”

* * *

_It’s more like a ship at the mercy of the waves._

* * *

Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin again. Sayna, and how hard he had had to work to win Windred over to him, to convince her that he loved Sayna more than life itself and would treat her well, that he wasn’t just the rough-and-tumble warrior she saw. How Sayna had beamed at him on the day of their marriage. How she had looked by the fire in St. Ninian’s, cuddled up into his side with the red glow of the embers limning her fur in a halo. How happy she’d been when she’d come to him and told him she was pregnant, that they’d have a child together.

How big little Martin is getting, a season and a half old and following him everywhere around Brockhall like a little shadow. How serious the babe is, watching everyone with wide, grey eyes. Just like his mother’s. Always biting off more than he can chew, too, trying to haul soup pots to the kitchen that are bigger than he is, or carrying Windred’s mending for her, even though every step threatens to get him tangled in the shirt or smock she’s repairing. Sayna always says that’s his fault, his obstinacy, and then she turns around and does the same thing, organizing an expedition to gather medicinal herbs and not taking “no” for an answer. 

His little family. 

Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin again, as he whirls his father’s blade over his head and slices through a stoat. As he leaps forward across the parade ground of Kotir, crossing his blade with the shaft of a weasel’s spear, slicing through the oak to gut the creature behind it. As he stands, parrying another seeking spear point, as he lashes out, as he ducks and slices at unprotected footpaws, as he cleaves through a shield. 

As the arrows thud into his body. As he fights on. As he reaches the doors of the fortress. As he leans against them, trying to catch his breath. Trying to ignore the pain. Trying to hear Siobhan beside him, yelling insults at the vermin surrounding them. 

As he reaches the gates of Dark Forest, Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin.

* * *

_One twitch of the tiller—_

* * *

Sayna stands outside Brockhall, leaning against the solid oak and watching the rising sun. Her eyes are red rimmed with exhaustion, and the tree is the only thing holding her up, but she won’t move until she knows for sure. One way or another. Martin dozes at her feet. He’s escaped from Windred three times now, always coming straight back to her. The last time, her mother had just left them a blanket and gone back to bed, muttering something about how letting two such stubborn mice have a child was Fate’s mistake. Sayna sinks to her knees and strokes his head, tucking the blanket more firmly about his tiny frame.

When the squirrel messenger drops out of the trees in front of her, Sayna already knows what he will say. Later, she thinks she knew before Luke had marched to Kotir, or perhaps even before she married him. Luke was always going to die fighting, sword in paw. There was no other fate for him. 

The day Sayna walks through the gates to the compound with Windred by her side and Martin bundled on her back, she stares up at Kotir and makes a promise to herself. Her weapons are not steel and oak, but she’ll keep fighting, too. She will forge hope and hone it to a point, and use it to strike at the heart of Kotir. Whether it’s in four seasons or a score, she will live to see the fortress fall.

* * *

_—one push off course—_

* * *

“Why aren’ you out in the fields wit’ the others?” The weasel confronts a young mouse in the middle of the empty street. He’s missing two teeth. 

Martin would dearly love to up the count to three, but he curls his paws into fists and restrains himself. “I’m taking care of my grandmother.” 

“Why isn’ she out in the fields wit’ the others?” It’s a ferret this time, another of the squad on patrol through the compound. 

“She’s ill,” Martin says. “I’m getting her some water.” 

“I’m gettin’ her some water…?” The weasel repeats, using the butt of his spear to tap at Martin’s footpaws. The ferret behind him snickers.

He knows what they’re after, and he would rather swallow his tongue than give it to them. But his grandmother is sick at home, and they need more water. “I’m getting her some water, sir,” he says, taking a step back out of range. 

“No you’re not,” the weasel says with a grin. “You’re goin’ out to the fields. It’s ‘arvest time, everyone’s supposed to be out by order of Lord Greeneyes.” 

“My grandmother is sick,” Martin repeats, and takes another step back, fury building. “Someone needs to take care of her. Sir,” he adds bitterly, hoping it might give him just a little leeway. 

“Likely story, and even if it isn’, she can take care o’ herself,” the ferret scoffs, and prods him in the back, ready to herd him towards the field. “C’mon, mouse, get to work.” 

“I’m not going to the fields!” Martin snaps. “And you’re a fool if you think that’s just a story!” 

This time, the butt of the spear trips him. The guards stand over him, laughing. “Mutiny, eh?” The weasel says. He crouches down in front of Martin, tone mocking. “Well, mouse, if you apologize, maybe I won’t toss you in the cells for the night. You’re still young enough to learn obedience, aintcha?”

* * *

__—_ and the story may land somewhere else._

* * *

The stoat has his claws tangled in the back of Martin’s smock as he holds him well away from his body, and he’s too small to do any real damage. He doesn’t let this stop him. Martin swings wildly from the guard’s grip, kicking and writhing and generally determined to be as inconvenient as possible.

“Izzat the one what broke Blackfur’s nose?” another guard asks, watching the stoat with fascination. “Lil’ thing like that?” 

“Nah, just mouthed off and managed to get a kick in,” the stoat snaps back. “Just git the door open, would you, my arm’s about to fall off! Oi, hold still, damn you!”

Martin growls, and swipes at the guard’s wrist. The stoat flinches, but the chainmail shirt he’s wearing protects him from any real damage. He’s about to try again when the stoat shakes him, hard. 

“‘Ere, toss ‘im with the other one. Easier to feed two at once,” the guard says, heaving open a heavy door. The stoat shakes him again for good measure before chucking him in. He collides with another figure just inside the door, and they both go spinning ears over tail. Before Martin can sort out whose limbs are whose, the door is already shut. 

“Coward!” Martin shouts. “Lily-livered scum!” 

His fellow prisoner giggles breathlessly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, “But d’you mind not hollerin’ it in my ear?” 

It takes another moment or two for the pair to get untangled, until at last two mice peer curiously at each other in the gloom of the dungeon. The older one winks. “I’m Gonff,” he says, and offers a paw. “The guards didn’ appreciate my impression of an ottermaid I know. Seemed to think I was mockin’ Miss Tsarmina, even when I told ‘em it wasn’t true. Didya really break a guard’s nose like ‘e said?” 

“No,” Martin says, taking the paw. “Kind of wish I had. I’m Martin. Why did they think you were making fun of Tsarmina?” 

Gonff grin widens and he launches into a high pitched voice. “What do you mean I’m not allowed to go out on my own? It’s not fair! I’m going to scream and throw things until I get my way!” There’s a bit of a yowl in his voice. Either he’s imitating an otter very badly, or he’s doing a fair impression of the older, brattier child of Verdauga. Martin laughs helplessly. Gonff joins in, and the pair sit giggling in the straw until they’re both breathless.

* * *

_Somewhere uncharted._

* * *

Sayna’s grip on Martin’s shoulder is tight, but not painful. He knows he worries her, and he doesn’t like to do that, but he dislikes the vermin so callously in charge of their lives more. She doesn’t say a word on the walk back to their hut, doesn’t even look at him, and when they arrive at their door, Martin’s long since prepared himself for a lecture. 

Sayna just dabs at a cut over his eye with the corner of her apron. “Telling you not to fight is as useless as telling the spring rain not to fall,” she says at last. “So I won’t.” Martin looks at her, not sure he’s heard her correctly. She smiles, though it looks painful. “I never thought you’d just go along, Martin. But if you must fight, please, do so with your head.” 

Martin considers this. He suspects she means something besides headbutting a guard, but he’s not sure what. “How?” 

She crosses her arms and looks him up and down. “There are more weapons than tooth and claw, sword and spear,” she says at last. Sayna turns to gaze out over the huts of the hovel _—_ hardly there for five seasons, and already starting to fall apart. “And more strength than that in your limbs. There’s strength in community and joy. Right now, we are scared, scattered. Defeated. But eventually…” She looks back down at her son. “Even if we were strong, our spirit is weak. We could never win, not now. Do you understand?” 

“No,” Martin admits.  

Sayna hums. “For now, that means helping other woodlanders, cheering them up, and _not_ attacking the guards. Can you do that?” 

Martin bites at the fur on the side of his paw as he thinks. “I think so.”

* * *

_In the now, we can never know what might have been._

* * *

“Oi! What d’ye think you’re doin’ there?” The accusation carries over the fields, and Martin looks up to see a ferret guard berating Twoola. “Keep pullin’ up those carrots, don’ stop!”

“Chestnuts, d’you think?” Gonff murmurs next to him.

Martin makes a face. “We do chestnuts too often,” he says. “What about cheeses?” 

Gonff groans. “Fine,” he says, sounding incredibly put upon. “But don’t bite m’ear, will you? I could have sworn you took a bit out of it last time.” Without further discussion, he launches himself at Martin with a loud shout. “You rotten little fibber, you take that back!” 

“Will not!” Martin yells, as the pair go rolling over and over along the row of radishes they’re tending. Miraculously, they don’t damage a single leaf. “You’re the one who stepped on my tail! Say you’re sorry!” 

“Won’t!” 

“Will!” 

The shouts soon attract the attention of every guard within hearing range, and the ferret leaves off to come rushing over, whacking both of them as they struggle and fight, kicking and nipping and shoving loose dirt down each other’s smocks. It takes more than five minutes for the pair to be separated, but by the time they do, the ferret has long forgotten the exhausted, elderly mouse who wasn’t working quickly enough. 

Bruised and dirty, Gonff and Martin are given a good scrub in the bath when they get home, as well as an extra slice of nutty bread to split between them.

* * *

_We can only choose _—__

* * *

_When winter screams across the hills  
_ _Hey-oh, away-oh!  
_ _We’ll huddle close against the chill  
_ _Hey-oh, away-oh!  
_ _Snow and ice won’t bother me  
_ _As long as I have family  
_ _Oh heave, haul, away-oh!_

Sayna leads the woodlanders in the old season song as they crawl through the turnip patch, pulling up the roots and tossing them in their baskets. 

_When spring storms sweep across the plain,  
_ _Hey-oh, away-oh!  
_ _We’ll stay inside out of the rain,  
_ _Hey-oh, away-oh!  
_ _Rain will help the flowers grow  
_ _This my friends and I do know,  
_ _Oh heave, haul, away-oh!_

They’re under guard as always. Martin’s paws are scratched, his back is sore, and he’s hungry. But he sings out as loudly as the rest, the song keeping the rhythm quick and easy. 

_When summer sun shines hot and bright,  
_ _Hey-oh, away-oh!  
_ _We’ll swim in streams so cool and light,  
_ _Hey-oh, away-oh!  
_ _It’s fun to laugh with friends and play  
_ _In these high midsummer days,  
_ _Oh heave, haul, away-oh!_

He glances up and sees the bewilderment on the face of one of the guard’s, the way he shuffles away from the woodlanders who are singing as joyfully as if they would be allowed to keep the whole harvest. Martin grins fiercely, and raises his voice.

_When there’s a chill in autumn’s breeze  
_ _Hey-oh, away-oh!  
_ _And gold and red touch chestnut leaves,  
_ _Hey-oh, away-oh!  
_ _Harvest, plenty, feast, and care  
_ _With all my friends and family share  
_ _Oh heave, haul, away-oh!_

* * *

__—_ and choose _—__

* * *

“Your mum would tan your tail if she found out you had that,” Gonff says as they walk bank side. 

Martin raises one eyebrow, swinging his smuggled sling back and forth. “Maybe. And she’d tan your tail if she knew who’d been nicking bread off the Spikes’ window sill.” Gonff shrugs, unrepentant. “‘Sides, Skipper says I’m a natural, but I’ve still got to practice.” 

Gonff grins. “Skipper says he wishes I were an otter, so I could be part o’ his crew.” 

“He never,” Martin challenges, elbowing his friend in the side. “He says you’re a cove and a river pirate. I’ve heard him.” 

“Ha! Just goes to show what you know, matey!” Gonff adds a swagger to his walk, swinging his tail as if it’s the thick rudder of an otter. “Blow me, but I’d be part o’ Skipper’s crew faster’n it’d take me to empty a pot o’ good ole hotroot soup.” His feet tangle mid-swagger and he trips, leaping up to the sound of Martin’s laughter. 

“You liar! You chugged five cups of water the last time you had a spoonful!” 

Gonff quickly changes the subject. “Well, go on, then, I want to see these natural sling talents o’ yours.” 

“All right,” Martin says, starting to swing more purposeful circles. “Pick a target?” 

“Betcha can’t hit the limb on that dead ol’ ash,” Gonff says, pointing out a tree on the opposite side of the bank and further up the stream. Martin narrows his eyes and, after a few more twirls, whips off a stone that smashes into the limb with a crack. This is quickly followed by a loud and angry buzzing. 

With a shared look of horror, Martin and Gonff drag each other into the river, splashing down into the shallows near a bed of reeds, where the water is still enough to not carry them off. 

When the yellow-jackets depart several minutes later, the pair of bedraggled mice emerge from the shallows. They’d gotten underwater quickly enough to avoid most of the swarm’s retaliation, and they apply pawfuls of sticky river mud to each other to ease the stings. 

“Too bad they weren’t bees,” Gonff says after a moment. “We might’ve had some honey.” Martin shoves him backwards at this, and then races to rejoin the gathering party, Gonff close behind him.

* * *

__—_ and hope that we’re brought safe to shore…_

* * *

Gonff eases the door closed as they sneak away from the gathering in the Stickles’ home and towards Martin’s, where they’re supposed to be asleep. They don’t go in yet. The summer night is warm and the sky clear. Instead, Martin braces himself against the wall, and Gonff climbs onto the roof, hauling Martin up to join him. 

“So that’s what’s been goin’ on,” Gonff says at last as they dangle their legs over the edge and stare at the stars. “I thought the guards were gettin’ a bit tense.”

“Mm. Explains a lot,” Martin agrees. His eyes are drawn to the hulk of Kotir, black with slime and shadows. “Verdauga’s ill, so Tsarmina’s taking on more power.” 

“Guess Gingivere’s not gonna inherit after all.” 

Martin scowls. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.” 

“I dunno, matey. Gingivere’s not a bad sort, for a wildcat.” 

“A tyrant is a tyrant,” Martin argues, “even if they’re a benevolent tyrant.” He kicks his footpaws against the wall, and voices something he’s been thinking about for a long time. “Even if we do rise up, and get rid of Greeneyes, and Tsarmina, and the army, another one would come along. As long as Kotir’s there, there’s going to be some band of scum that want to come along and take it.”

Gonff snorts. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but what’re we going to do? Tear down a fortress? It’s been there for seasons and seasons.” 

“We won’t be free until that thing is gone,” Martin says, still staring at Kotir. “Not really.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, then,” Gonff says, and leans back on his paws, staring up. “We’ve still got an army and three wildcats to worry about before we get that far, matey.” Martin just nods, leaning forward to put his chin in his paws, thinking. “Someday ole Mossflower’ll be free again,” Gonff says after a long, pensive silence. “You’ll see.” 

“Aye,” Martin agrees, eyes hard and glinting in the moonlight. “Someday...”

* * *

_...and not lost at sea._

* * *

“...even if I have to die to make it so.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this for... yikes, only two or so weeks. That doesn't seem right. Anyway, I've got a few chapters written ahead and plan to update every Monday, so even though this is a stand-alone, technically, there is definitely more to come. Crossposted to my tumblr @sanctuaryforascrivener. Come talk to me! 
> 
> (oh, and if there's interest I might do podfic of this, because I love reading stuff out loud...)


End file.
